


Silver Lining

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Awkward Dates, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Public Display of Affection, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "His skin is tanned gold from exposure to summertime sun, his grip still at Gokudera’s arm is callused; he’s tall, and lean, with the solid weight of muscle that comes with regular physical exercise of the wholesome, healthy kind Gokudera abhors." Gokudera goes to a game for the sake of a friend's romantic prospects and finds himself to be the one lucky in love.





	Silver Lining

Gokudera hates baseball.

He hates everything about it. From the needlessly complex rules to the overenthusiastic fans to the greasy food that’s all he can find to eat at the games; he hates every single aspect of baseball as a sport and as a hobby. He remembers ditching school once for an entire week, when his PE class was meant to be learning about the sport; and otherwise, he thinks he’s done a noteworthy job of keeping every aspect of the game out of his life.

Which makes his current presence at a live baseball game all the more remarkable.

“I hate this,” Gokudera mumbles to himself as he makes his way clear of the steadily-filling bleachers and around to the back of the stadium, where he can sneak a cigarette under the pretense of buying some of the aforementioned food. “Stupid baseball game. Stupid girls. Stupid _everything_.” He has his head down, is frowning attention at the pocket of his coat as he tries to dig down to the bottom where his lighter inevitably ends up. “Stupid best friend, I could be at home doing something _fun_ and instead--” and it’s then that he rounds the corner of the bleachers, and runs hard into someone jogging in the other direction.

The impact is dizzying. Gokudera hit with his head first, and hard -- he didn’t have time to see the oncoming collision -- and the other person was actually running, he thinks, and lacking the frail build that might have let Gokudera come out ahead in terms of the impact. Instead Gokudera’s sent stumbling backwards, his balance knocked out from under him as surely as his thoughts have been knocked out of his head. He struggles to catch himself, to reach out and grab at something to save his balance; but there’s nothing in reach, and his feet are still slipping against the grass underfoot, and he’s going to fall and won’t that be just _perfect_ \-- and a hand closes around his wrist, callused fingers press tight against his skin, and “Woah!” a voice laughs as that hold catches and stalls Gokudera’s backward motion. “Don’t fall!”

“Thanks,” Gokudera snaps before he can catch back the immediate bite of the words. “What great advice, I never would have thought of that.” He feels bad as soon as he says it -- he _did_ just get saved from a precipitous tumble, after all -- but he’s greeted with a laugh instead of the huff of irritation he would have expected to draw.

“Ha, I guess you’re right!” It’s a cheerful voice, altogether too bright for the impact the other must have just taken from their collision. Gokudera gets his feet under him and regains his balance, at least enough to take stock of his savior still standing in front of him.

He’s tall, is the first thing Gokudera notices. Gokudera’s not particularly short himself -- he has a couple of inches on his friend Tsuna, left behind in the bleachers to entertain his company -- but the man in front of him is half a head taller, with a dark tangle of hair that adds a few inches of its own by simply ignoring any kind of demands gravity might think to make upon it. His eyes are bright, his smile easy; he looks wholly unfazed by the impact Gokudera just made with him, like his optimism is too thoroughly ingrained to be rattled by something as minor as a crash with a complete stranger. His skin is tanned gold from exposure to summertime sun, his grip still at Gokudera’s arm is callused; he’s tall, and lean, with the solid weight of muscle that comes with regular physical exercise of the wholesome, healthy kind Gokudera abhors.

He’s the very _picture_ of a baseball fan.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and shakes his arm to drag himself free of the other’s hold. “What the hell are you in such a rush for? The stupid game doesn’t start for another hour, there’s no need to go running around corners and knocking people over.”

“Ah,” the stranger says, pulling back his hand now no longer holding Gokudera’s arm so he can reach and ruffle it through his hair instead. “Yeah, I am sorry about that! Are you okay?”

“As okay as anyone can be about to sit through hours of pure torture,” Gokudera informs him.

The stranger blinks. His eyes are very wide and very bright; they make him look startled, like he’s a little stunned by every word out of Gokudera’s mouth. “Do you not like baseball?”

Gokudera gives him the flattest look he can muster. “Oh no,” he deadpans. “I _love_ baseball. It’s my favorite sport.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in. Gokudera can watch the sarcasm settle into the hazel of the other’s eyes, can see it grow into slow-rising understanding in the part of the other’s lips. Finally dark eyebrows jump up, and the stranger coughs a laugh that says he’s finally pieced together what Gokudera is really saying from the words he offered. “You really don’t like it.”

“No,” Gokudera says. “I do not, primarily because I am gifted with some measure of taste, and also better hobbies than burning in the sun for hours while I watch a bunch of people in stupid uniforms chase each other around a field.”

The stranger’s mouth twitches. Gokudera would rather appreciate some measure of hurt, or even anger, something darker and heavier to match his mood so he can snap into a brief argument and blow off some of his own frustration. Unfortunately the other looks more like he’s about to laugh than anything else. “Why are you at a baseball game, then?”

Gokudera glares at the other and lifts a hand to gesture irritably towards the bleachers overhead. “My best friend thought it would be a good idea to ask the girl he likes out to see a game as part of a group. She wasn’t really supposed to say yes but she did, so he needs a ‘group.’” He swings his hand back towards himself. “Yours truly.”

“Oh.” The stranger is staring at Gokudera; he still looks amused, there’s still something of laughter at the back of his throat, but there’s focus behind his eyes, now, attention like he’s only just starting to really see Gokudera in front of him. “That’s cool.”

Gokudera lets his hand drop to his side and huffs a humorless laugh. “Sure. Okay. That’s a nice way to put it. Are you always this optimistic about things?”

The other laughs, the sound bright and ringing in the space underneath the bleachers overhead. It reminds Gokudera of a stream running over smooth stones, like water splashing itself into some approximation of childlike joy. His spine prickles with something halfway between grudging appreciation and cynical irritation. “Guess so. Things usually turn out alright in the end, might as well be upbeat about it if you can!”

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says, putting as much sarcasm on the one word as he did on his claim to baseball fanaticism. “What a good idea. How had I not thought of that before?”

The other laughs again, apparently wholly unfazed by Gokudera’s snark. “You really are determined to have a bad time, aren’t you?”

Gokudera can feel his shoulders hunch, can feel his forehead crease on defensive force. “ _What_?” he snaps. “ _No_. You don’t even know me, where do you get off on judging my life after five seconds of conversation after you _ran into me_.”

“You ran into me just as much,” the other tells him without any apparent irritation on the words. “I just think you maybe might have a better time if you let yourself think you might. Look on the bright side of things, you know?”

“‘The bright side,’” Gokudera repeats without easing any part of the glare he’s fixing on the other. “Yeah. Of course. I should look on the _bright side_ of being trapped watching a game I hate while my friend makes a fool of himself trying to be not-awkward with the girl he likes. Exactly where is the bright side in that?”

“That’s easy,” the other says. “You get some time to yourself while leaving them alone to bond and happen to run into a handsome stranger who changes the way you look at the world.”

It’s Gokudera’s turn to take a moment to process this. He doesn’t understand the implication of the other’s words for the first heartbeat of time; it’s not until the corner of the stranger’s mouth twitches that the epiphany strikes him, and then so suddenly he’s left gasping in something between surprise and outrage.

“ _What_ ,” he spits. “Are you seriously...are you trying to _flirt_ with me after almost running me over?”

The stranger’s shoulder lifts up, his chin ducks down. “Is it working?”

Gokudera gapes at him for a moment: the bright of those hazel eyes, the dark of the lashes the other is looking up through. The lines of that too-tall body, with legs that go on forever and shoulders flexing with easy muscle underneath the weight of the other’s t-shirt.

“No,” he says, because he’s not about to back down now, but the other’s mouth curves in a way that says he doesn’t really believe Gokudera, and Gokudera can’t think himself into any kind of rational defense. He rocks back instead, letting his weight tip over his heels while he tries to compose himself, while he tries to collect the electricity in his blood back into the anger it was instead of the curiosity it’s starting to become. “Jocks aren’t my type.”

“Haha,” the stranger says. His lashes dip over his eyes; they’re longer than Gokudera had realized they were. It’s frustrating to notice. “That’s too bad.”

“For you, maybe,” Gokudera tells him, trying to sound irritated and distant instead of coy and flirtatious; except his voice betrays him, some unforeseen tension in his throat tightens around his words to pull them low and lilting. The stranger’s lashes flutter, his lips part on an exhale; Gokudera closes his mouth and tries to cool the flush rising to his cheeks through sheer force of will alone. “Are you going to let me go get some food or are you going to keep holding me hostage?”

“I’m not holding you hostage,” the stranger says at once, without making any motion towards moving away. “We’re just talking.”

“ _You’re_ talking,” Gokudera informs him. “Which means I have to listen or be rude and walk away from you.”

“Mm.” The other’s lashes dip, his gaze drops down; his eyes trail over Gokudera with so much attention Gokudera can feel himself coloring to pink well before the other’s attention comes back up to his face. “You don’t seem like you’d mind being rude too much.”

Gokudera scowls. “I was raised to be polite,” he snaps. “Are you done?”

“Almost,” the other says. “Do you have a pen?”

Gokudera’s forehead creases. “What?” he says. “Yeah. What the fuck do you need it for?” but he’s not waiting for an answer before he digs into his pocket to drag free the pen he stuffed into it this morning. He considers it for a moment before offering it to the other. “That’s my favorite pen, you can’t keep it or anything.”

“That’s fine,” the other says, accepting the pen at once. “I just need it for a sec.” And he brings it to his mouth, setting his teeth against the lid to draw it free without any consideration for the marks he’ll be leaving. Gokudera flinches at this abuse of his property, opens his mouth to voice a coherent protest; and the stranger reaches out to take his hand, and everything Gokudera was going to say dies to startled silence instead. He’s left blinking shock at the other as his hand is drawn forward and turned palm-up like the stranger is interested in investigating the rings at his fingers; and then the pen is set against his skin, and the tip of it is drawing against the inside of his wrist before Gokudera realizes what’s happening.

“Hey,” he says, frowning hard, and then again, as the other keeps writing, “ _hey_ ,” coupled with a jerking attempt to get his hand free that only succeeds in drawing the pen through a brief scribble of accidental ink over his skin. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“Giving you my number,” the stranger says, without the least indication of shame or self-consciousness. “So you can call me if you want after the game.”

“Let me go,” Gokudera growls, without any attempt at all to tug himself free. “I’m not going to _call_ you, I’m going to go home and never think about you again.”

“Aww,” the other says, his mouth tugging at the very beginning of a smile as he continues to watch what he’s writing on Gokudera’s hand and across his wrist. “If that’s what you want to do, sure.”

Gokudera stares at the dark of the other’s bowed head, at the unconscious part of his lips as he focuses on the numbers he’s lining into Gokudera’s skin. “You’re really pushy, you know.”

“Yeah,” the other says. “That’s what I’ve been told.” He lets Gokudera’s hand go at last and reaches to slide the pen cap free of his teeth so he can replace it; Gokudera glares at him for another moment for good measure before lifting his arm to squint frustration at the sloppy spill of numbers winding across his skin. It’s easy enough to read them, even with the broken line caused by him trying to pull away; his skin is still warm from the grip of the other’s hand.

“So, yeah.” The stranger offers Gokudera’s pen back and Gokudera takes it in exchange for another frown, as intent as he can manage to offer the ease of the other’s smile. “That’s my number. Call anytime, if you want.” He takes a step backwards, shoving his hands into his pockets and tipping his shoulders in as he grins at Gokudera. “I’d love to hear from you.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he says, and lifts his wrist up to gesture towards the other. “You forgot to put your _name_. What am I supposed to call you?”

The other hesitates in his retreat, his smile softening into uncertainty for just a moment. “Oh. Well, I don’t know your name either, so…”

“Gokudera Hayato,” Gokudera tells him, because he could play coy with this but it seems more efficient to just offer up the knowledge when he knows he’s going to give it in the end just the same. “Am I just supposed to call you baseball idiot?”

“Mm,” the other says. “No” but he looks strangely uncomfortable, off-balance as none of Gokudera’s irritation was able to cause. “I’m Takeshi.”

Gokudera raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay. What’s your _last_ name?”

The other clears his throat. “Yamamoto.”

“Okay.” Gokudera can’t figure out why he’s so jumpy about sharing this information; Yamamoto Takeshi is a perfectly normal name, exactly as ordinary and unremarkable as anyone could hope. But the stranger -- Yamamoto -- is still watching him with that edgy attention in his eyes, like he’s expecting some kind of an explosion or braced for a blow. “Yamamoto Takeshi. Easy.”

“Ah.” Yamamoto’s shoulders relax, his mouth curves back up into a full-blown smile. “Yeah. Exactly.” He lifts a hand from his pocket and swings it into an easy wave. “I’ll talk to you later, Gokudera!”

“No you won’t!” Gokudera tries to snap back; but Yamamoto is already turning away to jog off to wherever he was going in the first place, and Gokudera knows his denial lacks any kind of sincerity to it. He curls his fingers into a fist at his side, pressing close against the numbers against his skin; and then he lets them go at once, before the warmth of contact can smear the lines out of legibility.

There’s a few people in line for concessions by the time Gokudera makes it there. He’s missed the chance for his cigarette -- as it is he’s been gone for minutes more than he intended, Tsuna is going to start to wonder where he is -- so he abandons the idea entirely to take his place in the queue of those few who have yet to purchase any kind of snacks for the duration of the game. There’s a small television suspended at the corner of the booth, presumably to show footage of the match for those that leave halfway through in pursuit of sustenance; right now, with the competition yet to begin, it’s giving a rundown of the players, accompanied by the high-octane commentary that always makes Gokudera cringe and scowl. He ducks his head to it now, fixing his attention on the overpriced menu instead of up at the screen and doing his best to drown out the chatter from the television; unfortunately the pitch of the voices carries, their feigned excitement more piercing than otherwise, and Gokudera can’t completely ignore the discussion they’re having.

“Quite a strong away team we have for this match!” one of the two is offering, punctuating every sentence with unnecessary exclamation points. “Our boys don’t seem like they’ll have a chance!”

“You’re not giving them enough credit,” the other says, chuckling in a condescending way that grits Gokudera’s teeth just to hear. “Our team has superstars of their own. Our outfielders are some of the best; there’s no benefit to hitting a pitch if we just catch it!”

“That’s true!” the enthusiastic one laughs back. “And that’s only if they can even hit off our star pitcher!”

“That’s right,” the second agrees with put-upon cheer. “It’s not easy to get a hit from Yamamoto!”

It takes Gokudera’s irritated thoughts a moment to catch up to this. He’s scowling at the menu on the front of the concession stand and doing his best to entirely ignore the speakers; he’s not listening for any information in particular, and certainly not trying to frame the words against his own experiences. But that name is too immediately familiar for him to ignore, the coincidence of hearing it on the television when he just had it spoken in person too jarring, and he’s looking up to frown at the television just as the commentators suggest that we “Take a look at his history!” and the screen flickers to display a photograph of the player in question rather than the video of the presenters.

Gokudera is sure he’s mistaken. It’s a common last name, after all; it’s hardly beyond possibility that the player in question happens to share it with the stranger he just met. But the image -- wide eyes, dark hair, brilliant smile -- leaves no space for confusion, and no question at all that it was, in fact, the lead player for the game today that Gokudera was just speaking to.

“Holy shit,” Gokudera says aloud, with enough clarity and volume on the words that a woman in line ahead of him turns around to glare shock at his language; but he barely notices her for the attention he’s giving to the television. The commentators are still speaking, giving a rundown of Yamamoto’s accomplishments and history in baseball; but Gokudera really is ignoring them now, because all his attention is fixed on the images playing across the screen, like his mind is still uncertain of its own conclusion. There’s a series of younger pictures, from middle school and high school, of that same smile in a younger face and narrower shoulders; but then they reach the present, or close enough to it, and there can be no mistaking that casual wave to the camera as the player in question looks up at it. There’s footage from games, and the dugout, and a bit from what looks like an interview; and on the screen, the player Yamamoto breaks into a laugh so bright and bubbling that it overrides even the shrill demand for attention made by the commentators, and it’s in that precise moment that Gokudera is _sure_.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he says again, louder this time. The woman in front of him pivots fully from her position, her expression darkening into the promise of sharp judgment for his language; but Gokudera doesn’t wait for her to find her voice any more than he waits to finish his planned purchase. He’s moving instead, turning away from the screen and stepping out of line to give up his spot; there’s a brief scuffle of uncertainty, a shout from the outraged woman after him and the start of a question from those people standing behind him, but Gokudera doesn’t wait for any of them, doesn’t bother to defend himself to the woman or to explain to those he just gave his spot to.

If he’s going to catch up with those ridiculously long legs, he’s going to need to _run_.

He makes it, if only barely. It would be easier if he knew where he was going; but there’s only a few options if he’s going anywhere other than the bleachers, and it’s easy to tell where he’s _not_ meant to be from the sideways glances he gets as he runs past. They might stop him if he were going more slowly, if he were less obviously on a mission; but as it is Gokudera is past before they can say anything, bolting past clusters of who he assumes are players and uniformed security alike. No one’s tall enough, no one has the right easy grace to their movement; and then he rounds a corner, grabbing at the edge of a fence to keep himself upright, and there he is, striding down the path without any indication of tension anywhere in his body. Gokudera takes a breath, fills his straining lungs with as much air as he can find; and “ _Yamamoto!_ ” he shouts, loud enough that his voice almost echoes off the enclosed space under the bleachers.

Yamamoto turns instantly. So do three other people within earshot -- Gokudera knows how to project his voice when he wants to -- but Yamamoto’s the one whose attention he wanted to get, and that’s the one person Gokudera is focused on. Gokudera huffs a breath, something close to relief and tinged heavily with an inability to get enough air after his all-out sprint; and in front of him Yamamoto is turning on his heel, is jogging back towards him with that same easy, athletic grace that brought them to collide in the first place.

“Oh wow,” he says as he draws closer, sounding dazed and a little bit starstruck. His laugh is dizzy with warmth. “Gokudera, hi.”

Gokudera lifts his hand from his side and reaches out to shove at Yamamoto’s chest. The fact that his fingers curl into a fist on the other’s shirt instead, that his arm flexes to drag the other in closer to him, is completely incidental.

“ _Yamamoto Takeshi_ ,” he hisses, forming the words into the beginnings of a curse against his teeth. Yamamoto blinks. His lashes look darker from this close up. “The _star pitcher_ for _today’s game_.”

“Ah,” Yamamoto says. “You found out.”

Gokudera growls and shakes his hold at Yamamoto’s shirt. “ _Yes_ , I found out. When were you going to mention that you’re _famous_?”

Yamamoto’s shoulder pulls up in a shrug under his shirt. “Not that famous,” he says, and his lips curve into a bright, flashing smile. “You didn’t recognize my name, after all.”

“That’s because I _hate baseball_ ,” Gokudera reminds him. “Of _course_ I don’t know the names of players, that doesn’t mean I’m _blind_. Did you--”

“Yamamoto-san,” comes a voice, deliberate and weighted with authority. A hand comes out between the few inches of space Yamamoto’s left between the two of them to press like a wall against Gokudera’s chest. When Gokudera looks up it’s to see the uniform of a security guard, her gaze fixed on Yamamoto as her hand promises restraint for Gokudera if he tries anything. “Everything alright here?”

Yamamoto lifts a hand to wave away her concern. “Yep!” His smile is dazzling from this close up; Gokudera kind of wants to flinch away from it and kind of wants to never look at anything else. “Everything’s fine, we’re just talking!”

The guard glances at Gokudera, her forehead creased onto skepticism; but apparently Yamamoto’s word stands for more than Gokudera’s scowl, or maybe his smile is as distracting for her as it is for Gokudera, because she nods in agreement before carefully drawing her hand back and away.

“You’ll want to go and get changed soon,” she reminds Yamamoto, as focused on him as if Gokudera has now entirely ceased to exist.

“I know,” Yamamoto smiles. “I’ll go in in just a second.” He keeps smiling until she nods surrender and leaves, sparing only a glance at Gokudera before retreating to leave them to their interrupted conversation; then he looks back to fix Gokudera with the full force of his attention. Gokudera opens his mouth to say something, to go on berating Yamamoto for his completely uncalled-for silence regarding his position, but:

“I’m glad you came looking for me,” Yamamoto says instead, beaming so wide the corners of his eyes are crinkling on the expression. “I was kind of worried you weren’t going to call after you knew who I was.”

Gokudera gapes at this for a moment before he can find his voice. “Who said I _was_ going to call?” he asks. “I never said I was going to call.”

Yamamoto’s lashes dip shadows over the bright of his eyes. “You _did_ come after me.”

“Yeah,” Gokudera snaps. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You must have wanted to say something,” Yamamoto points out with maddening rationality. “If you were really angry you didn’t have to find me at all.”

Gokudera stares at him for a moment. There’s something truly infuriating about the way Yamamoto’s mouth is curving onto that smile, the way his eyes are sparkling in delight; it’s like he can see right through Gokudera’s scowl, like he’s reading everything there is to know about the other from a single glance. It makes Gokudera want to shove him, makes him want to yell at him; makes him want to _surprise_ him, to do something so entirely unexpected that it wipes that dumb smile right off those soft lips.

“Yeah,” he says, “I did want to do something.”

Yamamoto’s cheek dimples when he smiles. “That’s what I--” he starts, and then stops very abruptly, because Gokudera’s mouth is crushing against his to stall out whatever words he might have been intending to offer. There’s a whimper of sound at Gokudera’s lips, a brief note of surprise in Yamamoto’s throat; and then all the tension in his body goes slack, every part of him leaning in and forward like he’s melting into Gokudera’s mouth, like the whole of his existence is surrendering to the weight of Gokudera’s lips against his. His mouth is soft, as quick to give in to Gokudera’s as all the rest of him, and for a long span of moments Gokudera lingers there, with his fingers fisted in Yamamoto’s shirtfront and weighting the rough force of his mouth against the pliant give of Yamamoto’s lips under his.

Yamamoto’s smile is gone by the time Gokudera pulls back. In fact any kind of attention in his expression has been utterly swept aside; it takes him a moment even to open his eyes again, and a visible struggle of will before he can focus on Gokudera’s face in front of his once more. Gokudera can feel every part of his body go hot with the evidence of Yamamoto’s distraction, with the obvious tells for the other’s dizzy attention on him; he’s sure in this exact moment there’s not a thought in the other’s head other than Gokudera, not even baseball.

“That was for luck,” he says aloud, and his voice is lower than usual, warm and husky in his throat in a way he didn’t intend it to be but doesn’t make any attempt to clear. “For the game.” He presses his fist in closer against Yamamoto’s chest; he can feel the pace of the other’s breathing coming hard against his knuckles.

“I’m not going to just call you,” he says, and Yamamoto blinks into the start of confusion, his slack expression pulling together into rejection of Gokudera’s words. Gokudera lets him linger there for a moment; and then: “You’re going to have to earn it,” and Yamamoto blinks, and confusion gives way to understanding. Gokudera has to press his lips together, has to give himself a moment for his racing heartbeat to ease enough to let him speak; but Yamamoto just stays where he is, caught by Gokudera’s hand at his shirt and Gokudera’s mouth against his and looking like he’d be happy to wait forever for whatever words the other is going to give him.

“A home run,” Gokudera says, finally, and watches Yamamoto’s lashes dip into understanding, watches the tug of a sudden smile draw at the corner of his mouth. “Hit a home run for me and I’ll call you.”

Yamamoto’s grin is brilliant from this close up. “I thought you hated baseball.”

Gokudera shakes against the other’s shirt. “I _do_ ,” he says, and lets his hold go at last. “That’s why I want you to make the game more interesting for me.” That makes Yamamoto’s smile go wider, into that dimple at the corner of his mouth again, and Gokudera has to take a step back out of pure self-defense. “If you want me to call you, that is.”

Yamamoto nods at once, without any hesitation or self-consciousness. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Okay. I will. I’ll pitch a perfect game for you.”

“Fine,” Gokudera says, and tosses his hair back from his face. “I’ll be watching.”

Yamamoto’s laugh is liquid-bright. “Yes,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah,” Gokudera says, and that’s all he can stand before he has to turn and make his escape from the pull of Yamamoto’s bright eyes and soft mouth. No one tries to stop him leaving -- he’s going back to where he belongs, after all -- and he doesn’t stop to give Yamamoto a chance to chase him back down. Yamamoto has other places to be, after all; and, more immediately, so does Gokudera.

Tsuna is talking to Kyoko when Gokudera arrives; he looks rather flushed and jumpy, and he certainly turns back to Gokudera with more relief than dismay at being interrupted, but Gokudera hopes the other has found some measure of success with the pursuit of his own relationship in the time he’s been left alone. Gokudera certainly had more than he expected to manage.

“Gokudera-kun,” Tsuna offers as Gokudera comes back in to drop into the seat next to him. “Welcome back. Did they not have any food?”

“Huh?” Gokudera has to turn and stare at Tsuna for several long seconds before he can recall his original excuse of leaving and make any kind of sense of the other’s question. “Oh. No.”

“Oh,” Tsuna says. “Sorry we sent you out for nothing.”

Gokudera shakes his head. “It’s not a problem.”

“I was worried you were going to miss the start of the game,” Kyoko says, leaning forward to give Gokudera a polite smile. “I’m glad you made it back in time.”

“What’s that?” Tsuna asks, reaching out to gesture at Gokudera’s far arm.

“Huh?” Gokudera looks down at the ink scrawled across the inside of his wrist and feels his face heat. He drops his arm to press the numbers face-down against his jeans. “Nothing. Hey, so you know the pitcher for our team?”

“Yamamoto?” Tsuna asks, a little uncertainly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s going to be a good match,” Gokudera says without looking away from the field. “He’s going to pitch a perfect game.”

Even pressed close against his leg, he would swear he can feel the warmth of the numbers written against the inside of his wrist as clearly as the memory of Yamamoto’s mouth pressed against his own.


End file.
